More and more your memories of having fun turn into memories of you being insufferable. You did what you wanted, singing Bon Jovi in the karaoke room while your best friend slumped over the song book and your girlfriend stared in amazement from across the room, wondering, Who is this guy? as you pointed at her and sang, We’ve gotta hold on to what we’ve got in a voice that can only be described as terrible, and the small Korean man brought the soju bottles and arranged them artfully along the long table around which knees were politely avoiding any facial expression, except yours, which were squinting under the strain of all that falsetto and the raw Japanese denim you’d been crushing them into day after day, trying to hone your sleek, ideal, repeatable shape, you, you, look at how thick and glossy my you, your hands sang as you petted your knees on the subway and imagined they were looking more like Roger Federer’s knees, which look so good in shorts, you liked to say, Federer is the only man who looks good in shorts, you liked to expound, and you wore these comments like your jeans, which is to say, everyone else had to wear them as much as you, taking on your singularity and shining it back like so many moron moons, and, as any moon can tell you, it is one thing to shine back real light and another to boomerang knees and denim, who’s not going to resent that, especially under the strain of weightlessness. You feel the weight now of all the ways you’ve been unfeeling, the little, nameless, unremembered acts of blindness and self-love that have slid this distance between you and your friends, worn down the once bright image of you they had when you were younger, the ballroom self baring its bathrooms and closets, its cranky janitorial staff, and while the self, you know, is difficult to pin down, flowing somewhere between ballroom and bathroom, you’re sure now the weight of it is the weight of all those little acts, how they’ve piled up and left an imprint on your friends, something a little sunken in how they regard you, singing and making a fool of yourself, jumping up and spilling soju on the knees of the girl who’s the only reason your best friend stuck around, so that at the end of the night he ends up stuck holding your stuff in the elevator on the way down, and when you stir from your drunken half-sleep to shout, Where is my bag? he gets to assure you, I got it.